


All His Angels

by cowpoke69



Series: Do Not Seek Absolution [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Canon Compliant, Circa 1885, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, No Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 02:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowpoke69/pseuds/cowpoke69
Summary: A collection of stories set before the events of RDR2.It’s the shaking that gets him first. There’s a tremor in his soul, in his flesh and in his bones. A fine layer of sweat covers his forehead. The whole place should be drowned in silence but his sobs pour out of his mouth like a chant. He’s been kneeling for an hour and it hurts like hell but he is numb to the physical pain. His breath comes out of his lungs like scorching fire and he’ll get bruises from the way he’s been digging his nails into the skin of his palms. The faint light of the morning sun is filtered by the stained glass windows and he wishes he could buy some more time in that holy place. But time is merciless, just like the gushing wound he’s seen on Dutch’s flank.





	All His Angels

**Author's Note:**

> hey there, just a head's up: you might wanna read the previous part of this series (or at least the last paragraph) just to get a bit of context.
> 
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> _I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,_  
>  And I'll fear no evil because I'm blind to it all,  
> And my mind and my gun they comfort me,  
> Because I know I'll kill my enemies when they come.

It’s the shaking that gets him first. There’s a tremor in his soul, in his flesh and in his bones. A fine layer of sweat covers his forehead. The whole place should be drowned in silence but his sobs pour out of his mouth like a chant. He’s been kneeling for an hour and it hurts like hell but he is numb to the physical pain. His breath comes out of his lungs like scorching fire and he’ll get bruises from the way he’s been digging his nails into the skin of his palms. The faint light of the morning sun is filtered by the stained glass windows and he wishes he could buy some more time in that holy place. But time is merciless, just like the gushing wound he’s seen on Dutch’s flank. 

So he steadies his breathing and tries to silence the dreadful thoughts crossing his mind. He looks up at the statue of the Christ and a hollow laugh replaces the weeping. Oh, the irony, he thinks. It must be such a miserable sight. The sinner looking up at the saint. The non-believer kneeling at the cross. The gunslinger asking for mercy. His voice is unsteady and he tries his hardest not to falter. His faith is feeble but he holds onto the hope that his prayers will still reach the Heavens. 

“Take me. Take everything from me. I’ll give you everything I have. Everything I own. I swear, on my life. Just spare him, please. I’ll bring them down. All of them. Every single one of them. I’ll fucking kill them if he dies.”

He has now reached the bargaining stage of grief and there’s no holding him back. And for a brief moment, he’s aware of the thing he’s asking for. He’s never been a religious man. But his desperation is eating at him. Feeding on his fears and all of his doubts. What will he say to Hosea if Dutch doesn’t make it? That he prayed? That he tried? It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. And then he remembers what that Marston boy told him earlier, with that irritating voice of his.

━━━━━━━━

“He shot them right before they tried to make me swing. Came up on ‘em like a devil of some sort. The Munford sheriff and his dogs started shooting back at us and we managed to get on a horse but we wasn’t goin’ fast enough. Still had the fuckin’ rope around my neck. Anyway… one of these idiots shot him. You know, he’s a weird feller your friend. Besides, what’s with this camp, huh? Is he a cult leader or what?”

“What did he look like, the bastard who shot him?”, he had asked it in a hushed tone. 

He wanted to deal with it quickly. No fuss. No useless thinking. The way Dutch had taught him. No one was to be seen around camp. Apart from the two of them. He had thrown a blanket around the boy’s shoulders and led him to a small fire in order to get something from him. A name. A face. Anything would do. He was trying as hard as he could to focus on the boy’s description of the man instead of Dutch’s haunting moans coming from Hosea’s tent. He could taste the pain and the distress in them. He was hurt and there was nothing any of them could do about it. Only Susan and the medicine she was applying on his wound could maybe ease the pain that bullet had unleashed upon him. 

John had just finished describing the man to him when Hosea came out of the tent. Even in the obscurity, he was able to see how pale he had become. He thanked the boy and went up to his mentor. He looked extremely distraught and every single time Dutch cried in agony, Hosea whispered something that he managed to hear only when he was near him. 

“Make it stop.”

And when Arthur had finally made his presence known to him, Hosea gave him a look that turned his blood to ice. The softness was gone – now replaced by wrath only. 

“Bring him to me.” The request had left his lips in a slow whisper but it was enough for Arthur. 

He didn’t bother asking Hosea about the way he needed to proceed. He was well trained after all. Raised to be a cold blood killer when needed to. And a merciless hunter when the prey required it. He’d look for that wretched son of a bitch in the entire country if he had to. He’d wreak havoc on the little town of Munford if it meant that he could see the last remain of this motherfucker’s soul leave his eyes. And as he was approaching the town, he figured it wouldn’t cost him much to stop by the small church in order to let God himself know that one of his so called children was about to sin. 

━━━━━━━━

It takes him a few seconds to realize that he’s not alone anymore. Another soul roams the holy grounds of the church. He stands up, fingers holding the grip of his revolver, the only comforting presence in this foreign place. Sitting on a wooden bench is an old man wearing a black suit made out of some low quality fabric. The man is holding a bible against his chest and by the look on his face, he’s been observing and judging him all the same. Arthur walks past him and he’s nearly out of the church when the elder’s voice echoes all around him.

“Vengeance is a fool’s game, son.”

That he knows too well. His grip tightens around the gun at his belt. His lips stretch into a humorless smile. And for a moment he stands there, immobile, facing the exit. Pondering on the words. But it’s too late. He won’t have it any other way. Not this time. Dutch might not live to see the end of this day. It’s not up to him. Not even up to God, he realizes. Because if God looked after them, he wouldn’t make things so unfair. But if that man lives, he’ll never forgive himself. Hosea neither. And he’s taken upon himself the task of bringing a bit of justice unto the world.

“I live by my own rules, old man. The only fool is the one who stands at the receiving end of my gun.”

━━━━━━━━

He’s been looking all day for information on the man John described when he finally decides to try his luck at the Saloon. He needs to know something, anything. He’s getting closer to him but he’ll only find peace when he sees him in the flesh. One of the customers he’s been watching for a while now might sing if he squeezes the right chords. Where he lives would do fine, but Hosea only asked for the man – leaving his family as witnesses would be bad business. He pushes the batwing doors of the establishment and almost runs into a young lady. She’s smaller than him and the collision costs him a nasty look. 

“Sorry Miss, didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t worry Sir, it ain’t that bad.” 

The way her features immediately soften indicates that she’s clearly not used to men apologizing. And Arthur finds himself smiling back at her, surprisingly. He’s spent too many hours of his day menacing folks in dark alleys all over town. Spent too much time pinning them against walls, holding his knife to their throats while they were begging for mercy, swearing on their own families that they had no clue about the whereabouts of the man he was describing to them. Until one of them finally said something half-valuable, right after he had told him that he was about to gut him like a fish if he kept protecting his friend.

And he is now aware of the way his jaw is slowly unclenching and his blood soaked hands have stopped shaking and how the pent up emotions are paradoxically taking over his mind. He focuses on the way her lips curl at the ends of her mouth for what seems like an eternity before she leaves him standing there to tend to her activities. She’s holding a dirty cloth soaked in what seems to be alcohol and proceeds to go behind the bar to wash it in a basin. It takes him a few minutes to figure out that he’s into the type of Saloons that also serve food, therefore he deducts that she might be a waitress. 

He follows her to the bar, takes off his father’s hat to let it rest on the wooden surface. Leans against it as well. She’s not paying attention to him, being way too busy dusting off a few whiskey glasses. He listens to her humming an old song, something he hasn’t heard in a decade maybe. And for a while he forgets about the purpose of him being here. He closes his eyes and focuses on her soft singing voice. It warms his heart, reminding him of home. The one he lost a long time ago. The melancholy washes over him and he fights against the sadness.

Hosea wouldn’t want him to do that. And Dutch would probably say something along the lines of “never leave your emotions aside, let them drive you forward, use them as a weapon”. The singing stops, putting an end to his turmoil. When he opens his eyes, she’s looking at him with an unreadable expression. Her eyes drop to his hands. Knuckles all bloody and bruised. And then she’s looking at his face again and there’s a question on the edge of her lips. But she knows better than to ask. Not here, not now. They exchange a deep look. And it seems like he’s known her for his entire life.

“You plannin’ on ordering something, or you here just to hear me sing?”, her voice is all rough but the way her fingers slightly brush over his knuckles say otherwise.

It’s been way too long since the last time he’s been intimate with anyone. But the truth dawns on him like a bullet would. Hard, shattering, way too real. He’d love to give in but he just can’t. The temptation is too great. He thinks about it a bit more; loves the idea. He doesn’t know the extent of her offer but anything would do. Her singing, him staying there for a while, embracing the moment. What a lovely thing it would be. The way she looks at him is to die for. But his loyalty screams at him. Begging him to stop. He retracts his hand and fumbles through his satchel before handing her a few cents.

“I’ll have a bourbon, please.”

She nods and proceeds to pour him a glass of the ochre liquid. There’s no sign of disappointment on her face. But it’s obvious in the way she fills the glass. Until the liquid overflows onto the floor. And he knows. He sees. He feels. It’s on the tip of his fingers and in the way she breathes. You’re a goddamn fool, he thinks. The warm light of an oil lamp gives her olive skin a golden glow. She slides the glass towards him in a swift motion.

“Thank you…,” he starts.

“Name’s Eliza”, she interrupts. 

She turns around to put the bottle of whiskey back on the shelf. Her white blouse slides from her left shoulder, exposing her skin. His hand itches. He’d love to sketch her right here, on the spot, but he’s been wasting too much time. In an attempt to get his wits about him he downs the bourbon in one shot. It does nothing to help simmer down his boiling blood. The liquid burns but it feels good. 

“Thanks Eliza.”

She smiles at him and he gives her one last look in order to memorize the curve of her chin and the way the light reflects on her thick black hair. He’ll hold on to this memory until he’s able to draw her properly. And suddenly, the urge to get his hands on this man consumes him. He scans the room for a while, before walking between the empty tables and chairs. It’s late but he heard them while she was singing. A loud group of men playing blackjack. They’re sitting at a table in the back of the saloon. He wonders how they’re able to see the cards spread out across the table since the only light shining upon them comes from the dying fire of a foyer. One of them is arguing with the dealer. Their voices get clearer as he approaches. 

“Hey you, feller! This madman doesn’t want to understand that he has lost, help me get some sense into him,” the dealer calls out to him in an annoyed voice.

And Arthur compels, only because he’s a hundred percent sure that the man arguing with him fits John’s description. Dirty greyish hair, white hat, scar on the left cheek, confederate flag stitched on the back of his jacket. Scum of the earth. 

“Fuck off, will ya,” his voice is gravelly and his diction slowed down by the alcohol he’s been drowning himself in, “I don’t need a – a pretty boy to tell me if I’m right or wrong! God knows I’ve had a bad, bad day. Almost killed a man last night but didn’t. If I ever find him, I’ll make him watch as I tear another asshole into that Marston boy he ran off with. Almost had him hanging, shit. You better go back to that half breed bitch you’ve been chatting with and leave me the fuck alone, son.”

It all happens extremely fast. The man is screaming in a matter of seconds. His features twisted in a mix of agony and shock as he watches the blade of Arthur’s knife buried deep into the back of his left hand. And for a few seconds Arthur watches him struggle. His hand is stuck to the table and he tries as hard as he can to take the knife out of his mangled flesh but Arthur has put so much strength into the motion that he’d probably bleed out before being able to make it move even an inch out of the wooden table. The scene is pathetic. The dealer and the other piss drunk players flee, without even bothering to take the dollar bills that are now getting soaked by the man’s filthy blood. Arthur grabs him by the collar. This close, he can smell the tobacco and the fear on his breath. 

“I’ll fuck you up, I swear to God!”, the man is a whimpering mess.

“Make sure your God knows you’re about to join him real soon,” he says it softly, before retrieving his knife.

The man yells and he strikes him across the head with an empty beer bottle, knocking him out. He doesn’t want to attract the law. It takes him an immense amount of effort to put him on his shoulder and he blames it on the sleep-deprivation. He walks past the bar one last time and looks at Eliza. She’s standing still. Waiting for him to say something. The look in her eyes assures him that she won’t say anything to her boss or to the law about what just happened. She motions towards his hat – abandoned on the counter of the bar. He’s pretty sure she can hear him think from where she stands. She’s sweet and fierce and he’s all loyalty and vengeance but he knows that nothing will ever compare to what he feels when she picks up his hat and holds it close to her chest. 

“I’ll take care of it,” her voice is a whisper.

And for what feels like the first time in centuries, his loneliness is drowned by her tenderness.

 

“I’ll come back for it,” he promises.

**Author's Note:**

> howdy partner, leave your kudos and comments and tell me what you liked and what you hated, promise i won't cry (maybe a little). the song mentionned in the first notes is 'through the valley' by shawn james. thanks for reading, lots of uwus. ps: john marston is 12yo in this, he's a young raccoon ok?


End file.
